The captain's helm split with a crunch. Brennar's crimson-lit axe drove through steel, bone, and mud in one harsh stroke. For a heartbeat the field froze—the roar, the clatter, even the fire seemed to hold its breath. Then weapons fell. Spears thudded into churned earth. Shields sagged. Men dropped to their knees.
Relief hit like a wave. Chains clanged open. Sobbing laughter broke. Some ran, crying names; some just crumpled where they stood, too empty for tears. Rowan swayed at the river's lip, water dripping from his sleeves, body hollow with effort. They had survived.
At a cost.
---
The survivors among the raiders were driven into the same iron cages that had held villagers an hour before. Bars slammed. Keys turned. Freedmen spat and hurled curses. Others only stared, their silence sharper than stones.
"Lock them all," Ari said, voice flat. Her bow hung useless—no arrows left, fingers wrapped in crude bandages. "We'll decide after."
Rowan turned at a groan. Ashwyn—who had stood like a rooted oak—buckled, staff skidding, and crumpled to his knees. Rowan caught his arm. The old man felt light, too light, his skin thin as paper.
The spirits he had called from the wild—the vast tide of beasts, serpents, and birds—melted back into the forest, fading into shadow and silence. But Bramble and Eldros remained. The wolf pressed close at his side, a low rumble in his chest, while the stag stood sentinel behind him, antlers proud even in the quiet. They were his soulkin. They would not leave until he did.
"Ashwyn," Rowan whispered.
"The spirits answered," Ashwyn rasped, breath thin. "They do not give freely. They take." His hair, grayed that morning, was nearly white. His eyes were dimmer, his hands shaking. "I gave them what years I had left."
Lyra slid in beside him, palms glowing as she did what she could. It wasn't wounds; it was years, spent like coin. Ashwyn's mouth twitched in a tired smile. "Help me up. I won't lie here."
Rowan and Ari lifted him. Bramble ghosted in close on one side, Eldros steady on the other, lending warmth and presence.
---
When the worst of the panic settled, Lyra stood and walked to the cages. Her face was pale but steady.
"Any healers among you?" she called.
Mutters. A bitter laugh. Spit. Fingers tightened on bars.
Ashwyn, leaning on Rowan, found enough breath for a warning. "Even if one answers, tread carefully. Some wounds they might heal… others they might finish."
Lyra raised her voice so every captive could hear. "Listen well. If any of you touch a soul without my say, if I so much as suspect a trick—I will tie you to a post and leave you for the beasts. Think hard before you open your mouths."
Silence dragged. Then three hands lifted—two young women, one man, faces taut with fear.
"We… were healers," one whispered. "Before they took us. We can help. Please."
Jeers erupted from other cages. "Traitors!" "Rot with them!" Bars rattled.
Lyra stared a long moment, weighing need against risk. Then she nodded once. "You'll work under my eyes. You touch no one I don't point to. One lie, one wrong move—and you remember what I said."
She pulled three small bundles from her satchel—flat bread, dried meat—and tossed one to each. "Healing burns strength. You'll need fuel. Prove you're worth the food I just spent."
Angry voices flared at once. "We can help too!" "Give us food!" Hands thrust through bars.
Lyra didn't blink. "You should have spoken before you saw the benefit," she said, cold as river stone. "You'll wait. Those who hesitated don't bargain after."
The three clutched their food, eyes wide. The rest simmered, jealousy souring the air.
Rowan watched the exchange and felt again how far they'd been pushed. Mercy was thinner here. Survival had teeth.
---
Brennar strode past, axe now resting on his shoulder. Blood streaked his arms to the elbows. A boy broke from the crowd and wrapped him in a shaking hug; a woman followed, crying his name. Between them, the badly wounded swordsman Brennar had sent behind the log earlier leaned hard, white with pain.
"You gave me back my family," the man said, tears cutting clean tracks through mud.
Brennar's jaw worked. For once, no grin, no roar. He squeezed the man's wrist. "You did the breathing," he muttered, and looked away fast.
Tamsin came with the young and the weak, leading them step by careful step. Children ran ahead, calling for mothers and fathers. Some found them, and the sound that rose was joy broken by sobs. Others found a body and fell over it, small hands clutching clothes that would not warm again. Tamsin knelt with each, voice steady though her own cheeks were wet.
Fires kindled. Pots hissed. The mule lowered its head to Lyra's shoulder and stood without asking for a crust. Shadows stretched long. In the cages, men glared or stared at the dirt, breath fogging the bars.
Rowan helped Ashwyn to a stump by a small fire. The old man eased down with a hiss, blanket pulled around his shoulders. Bramble settled with his chin on Ashwyn's boot; Eldros stood behind like a quiet pillar.
"Why did the spirits come?" Rowan asked at last, voice low.
"Because they remember," Ashwyn said. "Because once we kept the same paths. A warden does not command. He asks. Tonight I asked too much." He drew a thin breath. "I will live. But I will not be what I was."
Rowan looked out across the field—at the wounded, the huddled, the cages—and felt the truth of it settle: they weren't just fighters now. They were responsible.
Ari joined them, bow across her knees, gaze far. Nyx slid into the edge of the light, silent, Pan a shadow at her heel. Brennar came last and sat with a groan, the bear looming behind like a dark hill. For a long time they said nothing.
"We can't keep running," Rowan said finally. "Village to village, fight to fight—they'll keep finding us."
Brennar grunted. "I'm done running."
"If you build," Nyx said, voice like a knife laid flat, "be ready to kill twice as many to keep it."
Ashwyn's eyes warmed, tired and proud. "The strings pull north and east. A hollow where roots hold. I can take you." He swallowed. "I will need to lean."
"You can lean," Rowan said.
He stood, joints screaming. Faces turned toward him—too many, all of them waiting without quite knowing they were. He looked past the fires to the cages, to the hunched figures inside and the ring of freedmen watching with hard eyes. He looked at the children asleep on parents' laps and the bodies covered with cloth.
"Victory came at great cost," he said, voice steady. "Now we rest."
He let the words sit with the embers and the dark.
"Because tomorrow," he finished, "we must find a new path."